


Red Card

by Glossolalia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Adult Content, Adultery, Cheating, Consensual Infidelity, Dad Yaois, Explicit Sexual Content, Football | Soccer, Illustrated, M/M, Sexting, Switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6372379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glossolalia/pseuds/Glossolalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris is an ex-professional soccer player who moves to the suburbs of Rhode Island with his wife and child. There he meets Garrett Hawke, also a married man, whose daughter is on the little league soccer team he coaches. Instantly, they hit it off, and it isn't long before both men forget the definition of fidelity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Illustrations are by DRISRT on Tumblr.

 

  


### I.

Kirkwall, Rhode Island suburbia; an instrument of capitalism created to perpetuate a sense of false contentment in the credit card driven middle class. A place where the latest Nissan Altima with leather seats is a testament to whether or not one loves his wife, and where the community councils actually matter. It's the last place on earth where someone can find an apple pie on the windowsill; where front doors are left unlocked when no one's home; where children's sports teams are the hobbies of dads; where mothers still combat over the PTA board.

Such _Better Homes & Gardens_ and _Sports Illustrated_ Americana felt like a parody to Garrett Hawke. Though, with two kids and a beautiful wife he loved, he couldn't say much. In fact, he was a herald of it in his own right.

Every Monday, his basement was the lair for sessions of fantasy football and poker where the stakes were low but the food was grilled. They smoked and drank Budweiser until it looked like a fog machine had turned on and raucous laughter climbed the stairs that only quieted when his wife, Merrill, descended them. A chorus of apologies always followed her, and occasionally, Hawke believed his friends loved her as much as he did.

Why wouldn't they, though? With a thin waist and eyes that shone in consideration for everyone she met, she was a theology professor at the local Christian college and spent her free time working hands-on with battered women. Her makeup was always done, she drank Stella Artois like water, and while she was scattered in speech, she was fiercely intelligent. When Merrill wasn't doing what she wanted for the community, she helped Hawke with his barbecues and wild business ventures. She sat with him at their children's soccer games, woke up with him before he started his 5 AM shift at the radio station and rode his cock until his thighs shook. She'd promised to give him a third baby when she finally had tenure. Merrill did everything and more, and again, Hawke loved her.

Sometimes, she loved him, too.

Her affection for him came and went like seasons.

 _Marriage_ , Hawke's mother, Leandra, had told him. _That's marriage._

She was a professional woman who took her students' time into consideration. While she didn't neglect her children, she kept them at the office until Hawke called and offered to take them home. It was how their schedules worked, and the kids didn't seem to mind as long as they had money for the vending machine.

"It's fine! I like them with me while I work. They play and it's nice to have the commotion. Bethany likes the lab equipment – the plastic kind, I promise." She'd tell him a variation of this when he called to ask if she wanted him to stop by earlier than usual. "I know you've got guy things, and I don't want to inconvenience you. When soccer season starts next week you'll get them all to yourself, and I won't see any of you. But could you bring me a tea when you come get them, please? A green one, iced."

Bethany, their nine-year-old and the eldest, had been playing soccer since she was five. It'd become a family event to spend most of autumn at her practices and games. Carver, their six-year-old, had tried soccer for one season. After watching him defiantly sit down and pick at a dandelion in the middle of a game, Hawke had decided soccer wasn't for him. He preferred airplanes and playing with their Mastiff, affectionately named Pig, alone.

"Are you sure?" But Hawke resigned before she replied. "That's fine. I'll bring your tea. Do you need food?"

He heard Bethany yell that she wanted chicken fingers, and Hawke realized he was on speaker phone. He was glad he'd realized because he'd almost asked his wife if she'd come home early. They hadn't had sex in three weeks.

"Something for the kids," she said and then exhaled, amused. "Carver, your flashcards."

 _Maybe I don't like marriage_ , he'd replied to his mother who'd immediately grabbed his arm, firm and commanding. _Sorry – but if she's not there, then what's the point?_

 _You're just like your father_ , she'd snapped and let him go. _Not many women forgive Malcolm the way I did. You have two children, Garrett. Remember that. Remember them._

 

 

### II.

It would pass.

Hawke knew this as he loaded Bethany into the Jeep for her first day of practice with the Kirkwall Youth Soccer League. Shin guards on with itchy socks tugged over them, Hawke had combed her hair into a ponytail and bobby pinned her bangs back while she played her DS.

"Daddy, is Mommy coming tonight?" she'd asked, tongue tight between her front teeth as she concentrated on her game. Whenever Hawke did her hair, she sat on the bathroom sink.

Hawke shrugged and they shared a grimace in the mirror before laughing.

"She's doing important Mommy stuff."

"Grading papers and those big dusty books are boring. I _never_ want to be teacher."

"Then what do you want to be?"

"Probably a professional soccer player like my coach. He's the new girl's dad, and _I_ heard he has gold medals. Three, actually."

"Where did you hear that?" Hawke asked, wondering how that hadn't slipped through the grapevine. He knew everyone and everything.

"Mommy said so. He's also the new coach on campus."

"Aunt Aveline is head of the Athletics Department and didn't say anything to me about it."

He had no idea why he was challenging his daughter.

Bethany seemed to feel the same way because her blue eyes narrowed as she arched an eyebrow. He pointedly finished her hair before lifting his hands in surrender.

"Never mind," he joked.

"I'm not lying."

"I know you're not, sweetheart."

"You'll meet him."

"I'm sure I will."

Afterward, they pulled up to the high school field where the practices took place on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Bethany bounced in her seat when she spotted her friends, and Carver was busying himself with his own DS, eyes wide as he burned through whatever level he was on. Hawke had a PlayStation in his man cave, but he rarely gave himself time for it. Bethany and Carver, on the other hand, used it religiously when Hawke was out of the house.

"Let me park!" Hawke yelled. "Dammit, Bethy…"

"Daddy, don't swear," Carver said with conviction.

"You're right, Carver. Daddy shouldn't swear," he grumbled.

Bethany had already pushed open her door, and Hawke deflated as she stumbled out onto gravel. He parked, grabbed the folding chairs and cooler from the trunk, and a final wave of summer puffed against him. By the middle of the season, he'd be wearing sweaters and pressing HotHands to Carver's face.

"Daddy, look!" Bethany yelled. "It's Coach Fenris! I _told_ you!"

Hawke was halfway across the field when he saw him.

Long-limbed in a pair of black Nike joggers that hung low on sturdy hips, he was tall, incredibly tall, and wearing a purple muscle tee with wide arm openings. Hawke had never seen the man before. Kirkwall's suburbs wasn't the place for tousled snowy hair and gilt skin littered with black tattoos, nor was it the place for a man carved from ore to flex without seeming like a peacock. As he moved, he was unconscious of everything except the ball, and the confidence he exuded was second nature. Fenris' arms were defined, his jaw was strong, and Maker, Hawke instantly noticed his full, full lips.

Not once while he'd lived there had he seen a coach so gracefully dribble a soccer ball between orange cones, and if Hawke hadn't been a man in his late-thirties, then he would've stopped to vacantly watch.

Fenris flicked his hair off his face and glanced at Hawke who raised his hand in acknowledgement. Fenris awkwardly waved back as he looked to Bethany with a suspicious half-smile. She was rolling onto her heels, entirely self-satisfied that _she_ had been right about _something_. Fenris turned his gaze back to Hawke, and this time, it held. Eyebrow lifted, Hawke opened his chairs along the sidelines and did his best not to glance toward Fenris more than need be, but their eyes caught once, twice and then he finally took a seat with Carver at his side.

At first, Hawke didn't see them, but Fenris had freckles. Peppered along his strong nose and muscular shoulders, he couldn't have been much younger than Hawke, but he was far more youthful with his sporty aesthetic and stylish hair.

"Can everyone line up for me?" Fenris asked. His voice was throaty and his accent thick. It rang like the cayenne infused latte at the local coffee shop, and Hawke parted his lips. He'd expected something different, lighter. "We're going to do an icebreaker where we get into a circle and kick the ball to someone who hasn't introduced theirself. Tell us your name, how long you've been playing soccer and what you've done this summer."

It was his tenor that made the children effortlessly obey. Though he was intense, Hawke noted how easily he smiled at what the kids had to say. When everyone had taken a turn, Fenris entered the circle, scooped up the ball and began effortlessly juggling it with his thighs. Hawke kept an eye on those legs, reaching to push back his messy bangs until he glided his hand down to rub his beard.

"I'm Fenris Vergara. I've been playing football since I could walk. I'm thirty-five, and I spent the summer down south with the Kirkwall girl's team at a collegiate camp. I have a daughter named Varania, and my wife, Isabela, brought snacks for all of you."

Fenris kicked the ball out of the circle.

He brushed aside his fringe, and already, the children were star struck.

"Time for drills."

They didn't speak during the first practice, but this was mainly Hawke's fault. He couldn't tear his eyes off the man's frame long enough to think to strike up a conversation. A friendly one, anyway. He knew he would, though. It was only proper he meet his daughter's coach.

 

 

### III.

The second practice was a different story.

It was during a water break when Hawke approached Fenris, red flannel and white t-shirt fighting back the first cold spell. Carver was pacified with his Happy Meal and a new game, and Hawke had brought Pig along for the sake of Carver's antsy disposition. When Carver drifted away to play with the old dog that was too lazy to drag him, Hawke felt like he could properly evaluate Fenris' assets. He hadn't been attracted to men since college. It was foreign to him, unnerving.

"Garrett Hawke," Hawke said and reached for Fenris' hand. "I'm Bethany's father."

Fenris was in the middle of nursing his water bottle when Hawke introduced himself. Still drinking when he reached out to take Hawke's hand, Hawke's eyes shifted toward his bobbing Adam's apple. 

"I know," he said and then squeezed Hawke's hand as they shook. Hawke tested the waters and squeezed back before swiftly dropping Fenris' fingers. Fenris didn't react beyond turning to watch Bethany as she rolled across the grass with one of her friends. "She favors you. Your other must look like your wife."

"Carver," Hawke said and glanced up to make sure his son was in sight. "He looks more like my mother, actually, but there's some Merrill in him."

"Strong genetics," Fenris said and set his bottle down on a white table.

"It comes with the package," he said casually, and Fenris arched an eyebrow but didn't comment. He chuckled instead and dragged his fingers along the back of his neck. "Your daughter isn't on your team?"

"She doesn't like soccer. I burnt her out on it before she was even out of the womb."

"But your wife drops by."

"She finds kids beating each other up on the soccer field entertaining."

Hawke laughed, clean and honest. He didn't notice how Fenris gripped the edge of the table and watched his lips.

"I've never seen you around town," Hawke said, wanting to keep it going. _Needing_ to keep it going, at that point. "Do you live nearby?"

He reached up and pushed his bangs off his forehead, creating a makeshift pompadour that was still tasteful in all its sweaty glory. "I live in town, but aside from the college, we're not involved. I don't think your _austere_ community feels as if it's missing out on much. Our white picket fence isn't that white."

Hawke took the truth well. "I see."

Fenris rolled his eyes to the side, but he pretended it was good-natured. "I don't like being involved."

"Fair enough, but do you like beer and poker?"

"As much as the next man."

"Every Monday," Hawke said. "It's either that or fantasy football, but then people who aren't into it have the television and my beer fridge."

Fenris looked Hawke over, and it was an obvious gesture. "Maybe another week."

Hawke shrugged and sipped his Coke. "Whatever works for you, Fenris."

He didn't accept the poker invitation that week or the next, but Hawke found himself speaking to Fenris throughout each water break during the following practices. He didn't mean to gravitate, but something about the way sweat glimmered along Fenris' biceps, soaked him and made fabric bunch at his lower back, was enough to make his guts bottom out. It pained him to watch, but he chugged it.

Fenris was intriguing in his observations of the parents, knew how to subtly mock the Kirkwall lifestyle, and frankly, he was _cool_ to Hawke. They discussed their children, their wives and they lamented the lack of things to do in the suburbs. They laughed listening to the kids' melodramatic conversations, and when Hawke complimented him, Fenris gingerly pushed him away, told him his standards in people were low.

"Your daughter's talented," Fenris said, and he gestured at Bethany. It was after her first game, and Bethany had lead the team with unnerving lethality. "There's a camp over the winter I recommend. If she's serious about this, then my recommendation could get her in. It's not too late."

Hawke grinned and watched his daughter run down the field. "Do you have a website or – "

"We could get coffee at the Black Emporium this week, and I could bring you the paperwork. I've worked there before."

Hawke's grin slackened and he arched an eyebrow. His blood pressure rose. "That sounds… What're you doing tomorrow?"

"Nothing," Fenris said, but he blinked and realized. "I have morning practice with the girl's team. That's it."

"I like afternoon coffee."

Fenris noticed his team had finished their drills and were staring at him expectantly. He swallowed and composed himself with a sharp hum.

"Four then," he said. "The Black Emporium."

 

 

### IV.

Hawke was five minutes late due to a tea run for Merrill. When he strode through the freshly washed glass doors, Fenris was patiently seated with a cup of coffee in front of him. There was a manila folder to his right, and he was checking his phone in a black turtleneck and black pants that strongly opposed Hawke's casual bomber jacket and fitted jeans.

Fenris glanced up, indifferent, and Hawke waved before grabbing himself a cup of coffee. When he reached the counter, he learned Fenris had already pre-purchased it for him.

"You didn't have to," Hawke said as he sat down, and he immediately brought the black coffee to his lips. He pulled a long sip from it and smiled when Fenris shrugged. "How're you?"

"Alive," he said simply and then somewhat smiled, too. "Long morning with a bunch of college girls who like to talk."

"I imagine you get a lot of talk."

Fenris quirked an eyebrow, an unspoken question between them.

"You're prime wishful thinking for a college girl," Hawke explained. "Don't act like you don't know their mouths get wet looking at you."

Fenris closed his eyes and groaned only to laugh. He ended it with a defeated sigh. "I do my best to abstain from college girls."

"Just college girls?"

"Mn," he softly hummed and contemplated. "I am married, after all."

"You and me both."

Fenris reached for the manila folder and slowly dragged it between them before dumping its contents with a comedic shake. Brochures, colored paper with calendars and information pertaining to budgeting spilled onto the dark wood grain. There was even a pamphlet on the general safety guidelines at the camp. Everything about it was a paranoid mother's wet dream, and Hawke sifted through a couple of the sheets as Fenris rambled on about the famous American athletes who'd attended the camps. Hawke laughed at how blatantly unimpressed he was by the American soccer teams.

"It looks high class," Hawke said when he noticed the campers had matching uniforms.

"It is," Fenris murmured and then flipped another piece of paper over, as if it were an afterthought. It was anything but that.

Hawke stared down at the yellow slip, a regular forget-me-not among the materials. Along the top was Fenris' name scrawled in careful cursive. Beneath it was a phone number.

"I enjoy talking to you," Fenris said after a pull of silence, stare suddenly emollient.

Hawke glanced up at his face and cautiously took the piece of paper. He pocketed it and did his best not to lean forward, but he failed.

"When can I…"

"Whenever," he said, words lowered to a quiet murmur so the acoustic track would conceal their conversation. "I am yours whenever."

Hawke's heart thrummed, the palpitations rising in his throat. The idea of someone like Fenris having an iota of interest in him made his chest tighten. He wasn't sure if it was purely sexual. Truthfully, Hawke figured a majority of it was, but that was enough for him. Maker, that was more than enough.

"I don't want to get you in trouble," Hawke admitted and his fingers twitched along his coffee mug.

"You won't. Isabela is never home. She'd probably ask to watch if she knew we were having coffee. You don't know my wife."

"What is this to you?" Hawke asked, hating that he even had to.

"I like genuine men."

Hawke liked that answer.

He leaned back and brought the coffee to his mouth, noticing how Fenris' breathing faintly changed as he chewed his cheek. The idea that Fenris was excitable made him shake his leg. He enjoyed making love to his wife, but again, she was his wife. They'd been married for over a decade, and most of the time, he was lucky neither of them fell asleep during sex.

"Tell me more about yourself," he insisted. "Your accent is… Spanish…"

"South American," he said simply, and even Fenris knew that was an injustice, but he'd long since learned Americans didn't give a shit which part he was from. They probably couldn't even find it on a map. "I moved to the states with Isabela when I was twenty-seven, after I blew out my leg in the middle of an important game and she found out she was pregnant. An American man named Danarius asked me to train privileged university students, so I did. I do, I mean. It's decent money, especially at camps."

"So you're a citizen?"

"My daughter is, and _that's_ what matters."

Hawke heard the intensity in that sentence, so he switched gears. "It's admirable."

"I'm sure you think so, but it was circumstantial."

Hawke fingered the piece of paper in his pocket, his eyes darting to Fenris' long neck. He thought about tasting his pulse, licking along that soft hollow. "I haven't done this since college."

"Done what?" Fenris asked and picked up his mug.

"Men," he said, and when Fenris righted his shoulders, Hawke's lips furled into a smug smile. " _Never_ a man as handsome as you."

Fenris weakly laughed and then shifted his gaze to the side. "I hope your daughter can attend the camp. She shows promise."

"I do, too," he said, and he meant it. The shift in gear caught Hawke off guard. "Did you want me to go?"

"No," Fenris said and then brushed a piece of hair behind this ear. "Tell me what you like to do. Aside from poker, fantasy football and red meat."

Hawke hesitated. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken to someone about his interests beyond the suburban father mundane, but he suddenly wanted to.

"I like music," he said, which sounded like every sophomore's bio on social media, but he meant it. "Not because music is universally liked, but it's my job. When I'm not with my wife and kids, then it's concerts and restaurants, celebrities and bars with good local bands. I have to stay informed."

"Then you're gone on weekends a lot," Fenris said, more to himself.

"It helps getting out of here," he added and then thought.

"You don't talk about it a lot?"

"Only at work or on the air. It comes off as juvenile to the other dads or they get annoyed because they don't have the excuse to do it anymore. That kind of thing."

"Within reason, age shouldn't limit someone's capacity to enjoy himself."

Hawke parted his lips in surprise. "It's the area, I think."

"It most definitely is. There is a reason babysitters exist."

Hawke drummed his fingers along the tabletop and then cleared his throat. "Do you like to drink? At bars, I mean."

Fenris genuinely laughed; the sound dripping in honey, comfortable. He covered a third of his face as he swayed, glancing to the side with a faux-guilty expression. "Don't ask me that ever again."

"Maybe we could go together next weekend."

His smile drifted, face becoming thoughtful. "You'd want to?"

"Just a day trip. We'd sober up before we came home."

Fenris leaned back and rubbed his thumb along the side of his nose.

"I'd like that."

 

 

### V.

The texting started out innocent.

Small, nervous messages about their day, about whatever they'd seen while wandering around town. Hawke messaged Fenris first, the morning after coffee and introducing the camp idea to Bethany who'd nearly rolled off the couch when Hawke said they might be able to afford it. The first message was about Bethany being excited, but then after Fenris told Hawke he was glad, it turned into general conversation.

Small things: How was your morning? Do you have practice tonight? I'm deciding between cheese and pineapple and ham. It's kind of cold out. Did you see the moms at practice? What do you mean I'm not any better? I've been playing my PS4 for six hours. Wine before beer, sorry.

And then Fenris sent Hawke a quick picture of himself on the field with the gaggle of college girls evidently watching his back. His face was colored from the sun, freckles dotted throughout the ruddiness, and the corner of his mouth was bent into a half-smile.

_Maker, you're actually beautiful._

_Hawke, stop._

_I mean it, Fenris_

_You're one to talk._

That's all it took.

When Fenris finished practice, when the kids were in bed and Merrill was hovelled in her office, Hawke locked the door to the basement and flopped down on the leather couch to text Fenris. His bones were hot, aching from the idea of Fenris riding him where he sat, and he imagined Fenris' stamina had to be lethal. Then again, maybe not. Fenris spoke to Hawke like his frame couldn't conceive the idea of being taken by him, and Hawke almost preferred the idea of making Fenris come fast. Fenris texted him before he summoned up the nerve to reply to a message he'd been sent while eating dinner.

_I'm alone._

_You shouldn't have to be._

A pause and then none of those dots to let him know Fenris was writing. Had he said the wrong thing?

_Would you keep me company?_

Apparently not.

_I'd do a lot more than keep you company._

_It's too bad you're not here._

Hawke chuckled to himself and rubbed his forehead, contemplating his response. He thoughtlessly palmed himself and then shifted his hips downward, clearing his throat.

_It is but how about you show me why._

There was another long pause, and again, Hawke wondered if he came on too strong. This question was answered when, without forewarning, a mirror picture of Fenris popped up in their chat. He was standing in his marbled bathroom, a palm pressed firm to the sink's surface and his hair wet and tousled off his face. Naked without an ounce of apology, Hawke could see those defined hipbones that trailed down into a muscular V-shape. It guided Hawke's eyes toward a patch of dark hair, closely trimmed above the base of Fenris' cock, which was thick, hardening already. But what turned Hawke's navel to molten candy was Fenris' expression; viridescent eyes half-lidded and glazed by irrefutable arousal, a dark eyebrow lifted as if to ask – _More? Should I give you more?_

Hawke thanked the Maker.

He rolled off the couch and strode into the small bathroom meant for company. Shifting down his gray sweatpants and lifting his shirt, Hawke praised himself for continuing to use his gym membership, and snapped the first of three pictures he forced himself to pick from. North Face beanie still on from grilling sirloin, he looked ruggedly disheveled but with a self-satisfied expression from the reminder that he _did_ look better than people ten years his junior. Tanned abs, pectorals taut with muscles and well-maintained body hair creeping up his body like a trellis; Hawke had gracefully reached the precipice of middle age.

He caught the base of his cock and stroked himself from base to crown, his foreskin pulling back to reveal a purpled tip extending off a swollen middle. Hawke fingered the vein along the underside and took a picture of himself completely engorged, balls taut, heart pounding.

Fenris replied almost immediately.

_I want you in my mouth._

_Could you take it?_

_I'd choke if it meant I could._

Hawke muttered a breathy 'fuck' when Fenris sent the next picture. The man was leaned over the sink with his knee hiked up, his own length hanging heavy and full. His hand was between his thighs, and while Hawke couldn't see exactly, he knew the gesture. Fenris was rubbing his entrance, playing with himself for him. He imagined it was tight, impossible to push into without digits generously soaked with lube and careful fingering, pointed hooking.

Fenris' lips were parted and it implied thick breathing. His muscular thighs were covered in more of those black, vining tattoos, and Hawke wanted to drag his tongue along them, trace the maze they made until Fenris grabbed his hair and made him suck him off.

He imagined Fenris' voice, but he knew it was too soon to ask to call. Instead, Fenris moved to his bed, which was empty, and Hawke returned to the couch, which was blocked off. They texted for as long as either of them could take it, which was long enough for Fenris to send a picture with two fingers pressed tightly inside of him, his thighs wet with lube, and for Hawke to send a short, silent video of him pumping himself until he came on his naked stomach. The spurts were unstinting, honest. He'd nearly eaten his fist to keep from moaning out Fenris' name.

_Fuck me, Hawke. Please fuck me._

_Don't worry, babe. I'll fuck you._

 

 

### VI.

They hadn't even kissed.

Hawke considered this while eating breakfast a few days later; pancakes Merrill had made and fruit salad. He was sipping coffee beside his wife, eyes glued to the window with a vacant stare. That night, he was going to meet Fenris in front of the abandoned K-Mart. They'd take the Jeep to the town over for a popular dive bar, see how they enjoyed the each other's company without the hovering nature of their community, and go from there.

It was wrong. He agonized over how wrong it was, and it made his skin itch when Merrill touched his arm, kissed him goodbye or in greeting. Even looking at his children hurt, but he couldn't shake the adrenaline rush that came with Fenris' text messages. When he wasn't at work or talking to his best friend, Varric, then he was thinking about Fenris. His careful laughter, those rare moments when he genuinely smiled and acted as if he couldn't stand what Hawke had to say. His dense shoulders; shoulders he wanted to kiss, drag his lips along while breathlessly rutting into him. Hawke recognized lust, but he was running on what seemed like pure magnetism. In some ways, it was almost senseless.

_Fenris, Fenris, Fenris_

In truth, it was an insult to Merrill, and while he didn't know her, he knew it was an insult to the apparently aloof Isabela.

 _Unfair_ , he'd told himself while showering and touching himself to thoughts of Fenris postured on all fours. _You're being unfair._

Unfair or not, it didn't stop him from meeting Fenris in a mostly abandoned parking lot. The sun was tiptoeing toward the horizon when Hawke parked beside Fenris' sports coupe. Fenris stepped out of his vehicle, locked it behind himself and then wordlessly opened the passenger to Hawke's Jeep. As soon as he sat down, Hawke wanted to kiss him, but neither said anything for a long moment. They couldn't even look at each other.

"This is ridiculous," Fenris breathed after a silent spell. "We have wives and children. I love my wife."

"I love mine, too," Hawke said, matter-of-fact and eyes forward.

"Then _why_ are we doing this?"

"Because I've never met anyone like you before. Any other time in my life, Fenris. Don't ask me to explain myself here. It's wrong. I get it. I can't speak for you, but maybe I'm just a bad man."

Fenris reached and caught Hawke's forearm, fingers applying tender pressure to the thick limb. He guided Hawke so they'd face one another, and Hawke's stern, contemplative expression softened when their eyes met. Green, so green. Hawke could see the gold-leaf ring around Fenris' pupil, and it looked fragmented, intentionally shattered. Fenris seized Hawke's chin, and he swiped his thumb along Hawke's bearded cheek with a contemplative hum.

"Kiss me," Fenris whispered.

"Here?" Hawke warily asked, glancing toward the nearby road. There were no cars.

"No one will see us."

Their mouths melded together with an instinctive turn of Hawke's head. It was Fenris who lazily draped his arms over the other's shoulders, and though Hawke had assumed it would be a tentative kiss, his arms leisurely reached for Fenris' waist. Their breathing hitched in time, and Hawke parted his lips with a swipe of his tongue that brushed against Fenris' front teeth. Fenris' eyes fluttered open, and he flicked his tongue along Hawke's in return, smiling when Hawke chuckled at the gesture. _Teenagers_ , he thought and Fenris deepened the kiss with a tender suckle along his bottom lip, then grappling for touch. _We're acting like teenagers._

How Fenris tasted was familiar in a painfully nostalgic way; his touch firm, controlling, but trembling when Hawke trailed from the corner of his mouth toward that defined jawline lacking even a hint of stubble.

"No one can find out," Hawke whispered as he caught Fenris' wrist and gripped it, leaning the man back and pressing him against his door as he sucked a bruise to the surface. It was entirely counterintuitive to what he'd said.

"No one," Fenris airlessly agreed. His shoulders suddenly spiked, and his fingers reached for Hawke's thick, dark hair. Hawke had found a spot. " _Hawke_ …"

When he let go of Fenris' arm to push up his shirt and kiss at the tattoos on his chest, a red ring remained ribboned around the other's wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Merrill and Isabela hookup in this, I say about my own fic, as if I don't know what's to come, which I don't.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sinners.

### 

I.

In the grand scheme of matrimonial distress, there was nothing dignified or warranted in what they were doing. Hawke drove and Fenris sat leaned back, elbow on the arm rest and the backs of his fingers pressed to his kiss-swollen mouth. His eyes devoured the yellow dashes along the endless stretch of pavement, and he didn’t blink when Hawke’s hand crept toward his dense thigh. Fenris settled his hand on top of Hawke’s, and again, he was unmoved when Hawke turned his hand upward. Their fingers hesitantly sewed together, as if as unsure as the situation warranted them to be. Hawke noticed and glanced down at the grip with a strumming pulse. Fenris’ nails were immaculately trimmed and filed into opal rounds. There wasn’t a thing imperfect about him.

“Where are we going again?” Fenris finally asked.

“Viscount’s Keep. You might like it.”

Viscount’s Keep was a dive bar hidden in an alcove within the neighboring city. Its drink selection ranged from top to bottom, and the variety made it a place for all walks of life. The wooden booths laid darkly stained with high backs—creating the illusion of privacy—and the rustic theme of blackish wood laid in planks along the walls, the weathered bar top and painstakingly organized shelving with a mirror backsplash. Most importantly, the lighting was scarce and only challenged by whatever lights cascaded over the stage, which was squirreled away in the back as if to dampen the sound for those who weren’t _that_ interested in the show.

They parked in back.

Hawke stepped out with keys swinging, and Fenris fixed his jacket. Fenris’ phone was trembling in his back pocket, but he didn’t dare check who was trying to contact him. He knew that if he even saw his wife’s name dash across the touchscreen, then he’d stop breathing. Fenris liked to think he wasn’t a bad person, but so did everyone who did something as wrong.

Whether or not Hawke noticed his trepidation was entirely lost on Fenris. They walked through the front door with its stained glass window, and when they were both inside, Hawke tossed Fenris a self-assured smile that veiled his tangling nervousness. Fenris returned it, mouth askew in faux-judgment and they took their seats at the bar. Fenris ordered a barley wine and Hawke a stout, and from the outside looking in, the men appeared to be friends who’d known one another for a lifetime. As if to get it out of the way, the first thing the two talked about was their marriages.

“We met when we were young. I liked her because she was a dead-head and my small town mind thought her temporary veganism was exotic. We had a false-positive pregnancy right after we graduated, and since we were living together by then, we decided we might as well get married.”

“Romantic,” Fenris said with all the intentions of being as dry as he sounded. Hawke snorted. “I can’t say the same thing about Isabela and me.”

“Don’t tell me you gestured your way into her heart.”

“No,” Fenris confirmed. “She was the one who proposed to me.”

“You’re kidding,” Hawke said, deadpan. “How’d she do it?”

“Drunkenly and on a whim.” Fenris thought about on it fondly and Hawke laughed at Fenris’ wistful expression. “She’d been divorced once, and we slept together because I was a popular soccer player and she was on the cusp of international fame with her modeling. We got caught up in one another somewhere in our denial, and now, we’re here with a child.”

“Whims,” Hawke said and arched an eyebrow as he heaved a sigh. “They were whims.”

“I don’t regret it if not just for how it once made me feel and my child.”

“No,” Hawke confirmed. “I don’t regret my children.”

“Are you going to divorce her?” Fenris asked.

The words were light and without obligation.

Hawke carefully considered them and tilted his head until his neck popped. There was an exasperated sigh on his part, but he answered before he could make Fenris self-conscious.

“I’m not sure.” He kneaded the edge of the bar and lowly chuckled. “Your turn.”

“I don’t know either.” Fenris thought with his eyes cast over his drink. “I wasn’t raised to think of divorce as an option. We don’t fight. We have sex. We’re just not…”

“Similar,” Hawke answered for him.

“Maybe that’s what it is.”

“That or a premature midlife crisis, and instead of buying an expensive care, you’re having a semi-affair with one of your player’s dads.”

“It makes sense,” he said. “I already have an expensive car.”

They sipped their drinks and glanced over at the sound of guitar twangs.

“I’d rather talk to you than get any closer to that noise,” Hawke admitted.

Fenris, taken aback, dragged his thumb along the side of the wet glass.

“Do you think,” Hawke continued, “it’s because we get married before we know who we are as people? As we get older, we become our own person, and the person we married sometimes doesn’t grow in our direction…”

“That would imply we can only have people for certain stages of our life and everlasting love is a farce.”

“It is, though,” Hawke murmured and a gusty sigh followed. He rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s cynical. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I don’t think you’re wrong, but only not wrong in your definition of love. Love is…” Fenris smoothed his fingers along the polished bar and began to trace figure eights. He pulled back to carefully begin gesticulating, tattooed hands open in front of him and palms down. “Love can both be in the moment and then a choice. We fall in love but there comes a point when we have to make the informed decision to remain in love. I’ve found it to be a lot of work and a small harvest, but there’s something rewarding about knowing you grew it yourself.”

Hawke parted his lips and looked at Fenris. “Is it bad when you stop wanting to make the choice?”

“If the land is dead, then it’s dead, Hawke.”

They drank another glass and then another followed by one or two more. Hawke chipped at Fenris’ brain like an icepick and soon found that—with a few drinks—Fenris enjoyed discussing everything. Nothing was off limits, and he divulged snippets of his childhood in South America, the fact that, ever since his daughter had been born, he cried at every Disney movie he saw, and finally, the name of his last boyfriend. Hawke could’ve sworn he’d heard Fenris say it before.

“It was bad,” Fenris confessed. “It was violent.”

Hawke dug his tongue into the roof of his mouth.

“Who was the violent one?” he asked.

“He was.”  
  
  
  


### 

II.

Too drunk to drive back to Kirkwall, Hawke and Fenris agreed to split the bill on a hotel room located in the bourgeois end of town. One cab with creeping hands later, they tumbled out onto the damp sidewalk and drifted through the rotating door with laughter spilled between them. Hawke said something not even remotely close to funny as they walked across the lobby, but Fenris still smiled. There was something about their interaction that composed a flux of positive hormones, and they churned Hawke’s developing addiction to the man. It reminded him of a time when he could entice anyone, and truth be told, he still had the capacity to do so. He’d just spent a decade chargrilling and going to church without the mind to try.    

Hawke texted his wife as he stood in front of the host, listlessly handing Fenris cash as Fenris handed over his credit card. Fenris texted Isabela while they rode a glass elevator to the fourth floor.

The room was modest with a king sized bed and a fully stocked minibar. Hawke stepped inside and tossed his phone and wallet on the dresser before he stripped his jacket. His thinly covered back stood exposed to Fenris who saw the sprawling plain as an opportunity to touch.

With booze coaxing him, Fenris stepped forward and pushed his spread fingers up the backside of Hawke’s ribcage. The rivets of muscle impressed him, and Fenris paid close attention to Hawke’s body language. He wondered if Hawke was too caught up in his masculinity to invest in sensuality, but the other man reached behind himself and captured Fenris’ hip, fingers seeking naked skin beneath the hem of his shirt. Fenris’ eyes fluttered shut. His fingertips crept down Hawke’s tree trunk biceps, and he kissed the warm patch between Hawke’s shoulder blades. Hawke haltingly expelled a breath, and Fenris took it as approval. With a sigh, his sumptuous mouth crept from between Hawke’s shoulder blades and created a path toward the side of his throat. It imperceptibly droned with Hawke’s pulse, and Fenris tasted the vibrations with a slight lick.

“Eager?” Hawke joked.

His humor died midway when Fenris dragged his teeth and sucked.

Hawke’s eyelids lowered and he muttered a raspy ‘fuck.’ Fenris’ defined arm wrapped around the man’s front, and his splayed fingers settled on Hawke’s navel. There, a hot deluge manifested, and Hawke tilted his neck with the slightest stretch to give Fenris wider access to his neck.

The hand on Hawke’s navel dipped, causing his abdomen to seize backward. Fenris hummed against his wetted skin only to give him a chaste kiss on the bruising spot. The hand lifted upward, rising beneath Hawke’s shirt, and Fenris unabashedly dragged his nails along Hawke’s thick happy trail. Fenris needed to sate his curiosity, and the pads of his fingertips glided upward, following that avenue of body hair until it reached Hawke’s chest. The shirt lifted upward and exposed most of the man’s defined torso, and Fenris considered the amount of power behind his body. Mind drifting, his palm smoothed to the left to massage a firm pectoral packed with enough muscle to fill his hand. Fenris noticeably inhaled when his heel of his hand brushed along Hawke’s hard nipple, and Hawke weakly chuckled.

“Test drive?” Hawke asked.

Fenris lowered his hand, and once again, Hawke’s navel shot back. He curved between Hawke’s thighs to feel if he was hardening. Hawke breathed Fenris’ name like a fragile prayer, the desperation and booze making itself known to the room.

The tight pants could deceive no one. Fenris pressed himself to Hawke’s back and returned to his series of kissing. He pointedly squeezed denim clad arousal, and Fenris loved the certain heat between Hawke’s thighs. To him, it said more than hours of dirty talk and salacious images.

Hawke tried to quell himself, but instead, he groaned, defeated.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Fenris calmly said.

“Changed your mind?” Hawke asked and tried not to deflate. “We could slee—”

“I want to fuck you.”

Hawke righted himself and lowly whistled at the realization. Fenris applied more pressure with the next squeeze and Hawke’s knees determinedly locked. Fenris’ earlier kiss sensuously travelled toward the start of Hawke’s jawline. He traced the defined bone with a swipe of his tongue’s tip, and stepped onto his toes. With soft lips, he sucked Hawke’s earlobe.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Fenris coolly asked.

Hawke noted Fenris’ lack of hesitation. He, on the other hand, was not as quick with knowing what he wanted. Fenris was objectively smaller, but Hawke knew Fenris was stronger than him. He cleared his throat at the thought of going far enough to take cock after going so long without men in general, and his face tingled.

“Yes,” he surrendered. He wanted it, felt a foreign rush quicken inside of his core abdominals. Something about it was familiar, cloyingly sweet to his nerve endings.  

Fenris freed Hawke and swept him around by his hip. He tugged the man’s shirt upward, and the instated urgency was contagious. Hawke caught the back of Fenris’ neck to slow him down and brought their mouths together, lips parting on contact with cleaving moans. Fenris steadied his breathing and retracted just enough to bring his shirt over his head, and Hawke tossed it aside for him, letting it fall like litter.

Hawke’s phone buzzed. He fumbled for the dresser drawer without parting his lips from Fenris’ and tossed the phone inside, slamming the drawer shut with a defining clap. Their harsh breathing mingled, and Hawke walked backward toward the mattress with his tongue pressed to the roof of Fenris’ hot mouth. At the pause, Fenris skillfully undid the front of the man’s pants, flaying them open and tugging them down his thick thighs just enough to unveil what he wanted. Fenris glanced down and appreciated the rounded heaviness between Hawke’s hairy thighs, and he reached down again. He petted, and Hawke parted his lips.

The backs of his thighs pressed to the high bed, and Fenris felt him up with tenderly rubbing fingers. Impatient with himself, Fenris pulled back and slid his fingers beneath the waistband of Hawke’s briefs. He carefully shoved them downward, breath quicker than ever, but that breath caught in his throat when Hawke’s length sprung free between them. Naturally, he reached up to begin stroking the rigidity in preparation for lowering to his knees, but he was stunned into a stop.

The weighty cock landed in his palm. Purple crowned with a determined upward curve, Fenris ran his thumb along the tempting veins he knew would feel good to trace with his tongue. Subtly, it twitched, and Fenris thoughtfully ran his thumb along the wet slit.

“Holy shit,” Fenris muttered through faint laughter.

“Still want to fuck me?” Hawke smugly asked.

Fenris sharply raised an eyebrow. “More than ever.”

“Condom?” Hawke asked.

“Lube, kind of,” he murmured and didn’t take his eyes off Hawke’s cock. Fenris sank to his knees like a saint and wrapped his fingers around the hot root. He leaned forward, pressing his temple to the man’s muscle-boned hip, and curled his gleaming lips along the side of Hawke’s cock.

“Jesus, Fenris…” Hawke huskily murmured.

Fenris suckled, tongue laving as he turned his head, and he pressed his nose into trimmed hair. He breathed in deep and licked downward, following the first vein his tongue could palpate. Fenris languidly dragged his mouth to the tip and Hawke reached, knitting his fingers into Fenris’ hoary hair. Fenris split his mouth and tauntingly rubbed the tip along his bottom lip, rubbing the silky top with the upper one and then gently latching on. He hummed and popped off with wet slurp, but he quickly returned as if starved, suddenly reaching for Hawke’s thighs as an anchor.  

Fenris leaned forward, and slowly, he sheathed Hawke with his throat before smoothly retracting with his gaze on the man’s face. His eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned in once more. Hand fisted and rubbing what he couldn’t fit into his mouth, Fenris created a quick, pointed rhythm, his own hard on becoming increasingly uncomfortable in his pants. He flattened his tongue, steadied his breathing through his nose, and when he gave an unexpected wet gag, he hardly noticed.

Amber eyes forward, Hawke feared looking down would cause him to crumple and bust. His breathing hitched, heart tremoring.

Fenris swallowed him down again and again, and his hand swept between the man’s thighs to begin massaging those egg-shaped glands. One at a time, he rubbed them between his thumb and forefinger. He noted the hairy tautness, the tense tremble in Hawke’s thighs, and it was only then that Fenris slid Hawke free with a hard gasp. He wiped the saliva from his chin and stood back up to greet Hawke with a hard kiss. Lips fervently working and peppered groans, he wanted Hawke to taste his own arousal before being subjected to the full excursion.

The rest of their clothing was lost to the floor. Hawke gawked, drinking in the sight of Fenris’ sinewy frame allowed only to true athletes. Biceps ripped and defined, Hawke had spent hours examining what he could of Fenris’ bared flesh, but it was different now. Somehow, he seemed larger, more foreboding in his presence than when he was in youthful athletic wear. Hawke shifted onto the bed, but his eyes couldn’t leave Fenris’ brick thighs, nor that hanging cock his mouth grew damp for. Fenris was Apollo in leanness but Ares in the way that a look heightened Hawke’s adrenaline.

Fenris retrieved the complimentary lotion from the bathroom and condom in Hawke’s wallet. Though lotion wasn’t proper lube, Hawke decided it would do. He’d deal with the mess later.

“Classy,” Hawke easily teased as he laid back.

“We’ll have to write Johnson & Johnson a thank you note.”

“I’ll get out the nice stationary…”

“Roll over,” Fenris said through his laugh, lifting the edge of the word as if it were a potential question, but Hawke knew better.

Hawke pretended he hadn’t prepared for this. His mind refused to dwell on his shower that morning or how he’d fingered himself before eventually kissing his wife goodbye. Hawke suffered at the thought, so he rolled over, cleared his head and gripped the comforter beneath him.

God, it was a sight. Fenris found power in having the rugged, middle-aged man postured beneath him. He took the condom and ripped through the foil while admiring the thick hair along the backs of Hawke’s, otherwise soft, thighs. It ghosted along the two defined mounds that made up his ass but diluted at his lower back into downy blondness. Condom rolled on, Fenris leaned forward and kissed the small of Hawke’s back, hand blindly searching for the bottle as the kiss lowered and lowered until his kiss somehow became the tip of his tongue.

 Hawke grunted and then sharply inhaled. He shoved a set of fingers through his hair and turned his face toward the headboard. Lips parted in silent appreciation as Fenris spread him and licked toward his entrance, Hawke knew he’d always wanted it. He aggressively used the booze as a reason to relax and perked his ass. Fenris’ warm breath fanned against him.

“Fenris,” he muttered and he began to pant. “Goddamn…”

Fenris glanced up and flicked his tongue back and forth, eyes half-lidded as he carefully considered Hawke’s reactions. He rolled his lips along that puckered entrance, and he noted how tight and small it was. Fenris wasn’t beneath playing on the innocent connotation of those adjectives. Hawke dared to whine, encouraging Fenris’ aggression. Fenris then dug his tongue until Hawke heaved.

 When he’d had his fill, he retreated for the lotion and reappeared behind the man.

“Tell me you want this,” Fenris said and he poured a generous dollop on his fingertips.

“Fuck me,” Hawke gruffly murmured, his pride dying a slow death in front of Fenris. “Do it or I’ll fuck myself.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Fenris said, and he meant it.

He pulled over a side of Hawke’s thick ass, and his lubed fingers stroked along Hawke’s hole. He rubbed in circular motions in an attempt to relax Hawke, but Hawke wouldn’t give.

“You’re fine,” Fenris reassured him. “Open up for me.”

Another moment passed, Fenris’ rubbing never stopping, and Hawke finally relented. Fenris’ middle finger slid in with only a little resistance, and Hawke arched his back downward. His groan filled the room, and Fenris began to slowly thrust, taking his time as Hawke swore and attempted to fight the fact he was enjoying himself.

“I’m adding another,” he warned, and Fenris inserted a second.

The sigh that followed left Fenris hot.

Hawke slowly brought his knees beneath himself, but his chest never left the mattress. Fenris noted the clinging heat in his own gut, and it amplified when Hawke self-consciously brushed his fingers along the back of his neck, still fighting the noises he wanted to release. Admittedly, Fenris couldn’t have asked for more, and at the thought, he poured more lotion onto his thrusting fingers and oh-so carefully inserted the third.

Hawke’s pitched inhale was all that he needed, and Fenris began to finger fuck him. Tendons locking, he pushed and hooked those three fingers with merciless precision. Hawke’s hole greedily sucked him in and threatened to gape whenever he tugged out, which made Fenris watch closely. He admired the sight, the ring of slight wrinkles begging to become a gaping hole.

“Fenris,” Hawke pleaded. “ _Fenris_ , give it to me.”

 Fenris extracted his fingers, and once more, took more lotion. He smeared it onto his wrapped cock and vigorously pumped himself to ensure he was absolutely rigid.

“Tell me to stop if you need to,” Fenris whispered.

Fenris postured himself behind Hawke and slid his hand up the nodules of the man’s spine. He carefully pressed his cockhead to the other’s prepared entrance and listened to Hawke’s rapid breathing. That would be their eventual speed. That sharp, desperate intake and outtake was where Fenris needed them to be, together.

His fingers curled onto Hawke’s hip and Fenris carefully pushed forward. He was met with the slightest resistance. He considered fingering Hawke a little longer, but Hawke uttered a sharp, undignified cry, and Fenris finally entered with a clipped bow out that had the slightest reverberation. Hawke shuddered and Fenris reminded himself not to become too eager.

“Fuck. You’re inside. You’re inside me.”

Fenris’ lips parted and a throaty grunt surfaced from his chest. Hawke’s body enveloped him, his clinging frame molten around his cock. His eyes fluttered shut, and the urge to thrust clawed at the wall of his navel. Fenris nudged forward, but it was Hawke who determinedly scooted himself back, begging for Fenris to take him. Wordlessly, Fenris drew back his hips and thrust forward into Hawke, halfway to the hilt when he paused. Hawke nervously tensed, but Fenris fell back, thrust once more, and dissolved into a crescendo.

“Hhn—Fenris…” Hawke ejected the words with shaking shoulders. He breathed out through clenched teeth.

Both of Fenris’ palms grasped onto Hawke’s waist, and he shamelessly tugged Hawke back to meet him halfway. He speared the man with his head dropped forward, and it was as if someone had knocked the air out of him.

“Oh, God,” Hawke breathed and his eyes rolled back. His knuckles were white. To his horror, he realized he wanted it, more of it. Fenris plowing into him was making him delusional, and he was losing himself to the fever of the moment. “God, _yes_.”

His brain told him that, if Fenris stopped, then he would die. He would throw a fit and wilt if Fenris didn’t keep fucking into him with those hard, wet claps.  
  


  
The mattress shook. It was hefty and Tempur-Pedic, but beneath them, it pleaded. Fenris’ groans began shallow and short—almost disinterested—but they grew, unfurling into throaty exclamations and heaving huffs. His composure wavered into fervor, and he reached to grip at Hawke’s tousled hair. Fenris leaned over the slide of Hawke’s back, and he kissed his freckled shoulder.

He started to rut.

Hawke uttered a yell when Fenris pounded, then finding that bead nestled inside him. Hawke had only played with it a few times back in university. It was as he remembered it; insatiably wonderful with enough power to turn him feral. 

“Fuck me. Fuck _me_.”

On the brink, Hawke reached beneath himself and curled his fingers around his cock. He was lost to the eroticism of Fenris’ balls smacking against him, and how their thighs met with every shift forward. Fenris was inside of him, one with him, and he couldn’t move past the concept.

Hawke was on the brink, and the heightened panting was unmistakable.

“I’ll come,” he warned. “Fenris—”

“Come for me, Hawke,” Fenris demanded, mouth close to his ear. “You said you wanted me to fuck you. Show me how much you’ve enjoyed it.”

Hawke wanted to refrain. It wasn’t in his nature to listen or lose control. If he’d had it his way, then Fenris would come first and he would gloat himself to sleep, but no. His balls were strained, hugging close to his body. The simmering wrenching sensation had dug its claws into his fleshy gut, and it threatened to tear his pleasure from him, whether or not it was on his time. Hawke shook his head, bit his bottom lip enough to taste dirty pennies, and he involuntarily began to spasm from the waist down. His back arched toward the bed, and a sharp surge followed.

“Uhn—fuck! _Please_ , Fenris!”

Thick strings of white jetted onto the comforter beneath them. Hawke’s eyes moistened, and his haggard breathing dissolved into a silent cry that was somehow loud. Relieved, Fenris raised one of his legs so that it was bent and kneeled, and he drove into Hawke with lurching hips, his final thrusts animalistic and commanding in their performance.

“Hawke, Hawke, _Hawke_ ,” Fenris grunted beneath his breath and a small bounce accented his lurches. Fenris clenched the blanket, and unlike Hawke, he welcomed the mind-crinkling rush.  
  
  
  


### 

III.

 They showered together afterward.

Sluggish from their drinks and the energy exerted in bed, Hawke sleepily kissed Fenris beneath he steamy spray. There wasn’t much to say, and even if there had been, neither of them would’ve compromised the moment to discuss it. Hawke attempted to recall a time in his life when he’d found such sexual contentment with another person. He decided that, when he’d first dated Merrill, there’d been something similar, but this was still different.

In the morning, they woke with entangled limbs and Hawke’s face pressed against Fenris’ bicep. It was still early, the alcohol not allowing them to sleep past eight, but Hawke decided the hangover could’ve been worse. He grunted and breathed in deep to jumpstart his lungs before he rolled over onto his back. Fenris stretched his arms high above his head and dropped them to brush back his hair.

“Morning,” Fenris murmured through a sleep-thickened throat. He rubbed both sides of his face and veiled his smile. A chuckle followed. “It’s _morning_.”

“What happened to a couple drinks and the drive home?” Hawke gruffly added.

“A hotel room just sounded really good after you called me handsome.”

“You are handsome.”

Fenris’ smile widened, but he didn’t remove his hands from his face.

They had breakfast downstairs in clothes from the night before. Cups of coffee in front of them, they sat beside one another in the booth and quietly picked at plates of bacon and soft boiled eggs. Hawke felt every moment from the night before when he sat down, but he didn’t have the headspace to mind. There was a lingering pleasantness he was trying to drift from with every look toward his phone.

“I woke up to three texts,” Hawke said. “One being to remind me that I need to get paper towels after I drop you off.”

“And so it never ends.” Fenris paused and did his best to remain neutral. “Did your wife know we were together?”

“No,” Hawke said, short and to the point for a reason. “Did yours?”

“No,” Fenris said flatly and took a bite of his bacon.

Hawke lifted his shoulders.

“They know we get along, but if my wife doesn’t question how I am with Varric, then I don’t think she’s going to look too into me talking to you.”

Fenris gingerly stole a bite of potato off Hawke’s plate and suddenly appeared smug. “You mean you’re _not_ with Varric? I thought I was going to have to share.”

Hawke paled. “Don’t joke.”

“I’m not,” Fenris insisted, but he was still smiling.

Fenris leaned over and discreetly kissed Hawke on the mouth. Hawke paused, clearly nervous about any public display of affection, but then sank into it.

“We should head home,” Fenris murmured. He retracted and downed his coffee. “I make my daughter brunch on Saturdays. She won’t let me live it down for the rest of the week if I don’t.”  
  
  
  


### 

IV.

There was one thing about sleeping with Fenris that immediately made Hawke suffer. The distrust he knew he would build between him and his children—if they ever found out—went without saying, but it was mainly the realization that his marriage was done. Throughout the week after his first night with Fenris, Hawke dwelled on it with a hint of malaise.

“Hawke,” Merrill called from the top of the basement stairs. “Did you want chicken or fish tonight? I can’t decide. I guess it doesn’t matter—really. I can’t remember what we’ve had more of this week. We could do a steak, but those are for Sundays. Oh, I don’t know.”

“Try the fish, baby,” Hawke called back and sank further down into his couch.

Merrill paused, thinking. “Which kind of fish?”

“Salmon?” he called, and he found himself waiting.

“Would that be better grilled? I think it’d be better grilled.”

“Are you asking me to grill? I don’t mind—”

She interrupted him. “I can finish dinner, Hawke.”

Hawke dragged his hand down his mouth and tried not to laugh in exasperation. Their marriage had become a series of conversations from the top and bottom of the stairs. He couldn’t even muster up the energy to enjoy sex with her anymore, which left him defeated. He found himself thinking about what’d been said at the bar. People grew up and stopped intersecting.

That day, he’d worked out after his shift, dragged through his dealings with the bank and the grocery store, and without telling Merrill, picked the kids up from school to get them ice cream.

He loved his kids. His life was convenient and well-respected, but there he was, texting Fenris whenever he had a split-second or wanted to jerk off. The comfort he found with him overrode everything like an emergency switch. Hawke attempted to cleave his infatuation by talking himself down before practices, but Fenris made it difficult to do so.

Beforehand, while Hawke loaded up the kids, Fenris usually texted him.

_Can you meet for dinner tonight?_

Hawke paused at his phone as Bethany begged Hawke to play the playlist on her iPod during the drive. She’d recently become a girl group fanatic, and Hawke was cloyingly sweet on his daughter. They’d be listening to it at full volume from the moment he turned the ignition over.

_Anywhere in mind? I could after I drop the kids off._

_The bistro up north. We can sit outback._

He considered this. They lived in an area where everyone knew them, but the farther north they went, the less people they’d see. Fenris had tactfully thought this through.

_Sounds good._

The weather was changing, but with the dog in tow, Carver was yet to make his nest on Hawke’s lap during practices. While he watched Bethany dart across the field, his eyes occasionally shifted back to Fenris who stood on the sidelines, occasionally yelling orders and encouraging the kids by claiming he had heard the team they were playing that weekend was _really_ good.

It was at the water break that Hawke extended the invitation Merrill had nearly forced out of him. He’d decided to do it publically, to seem cordial.

“My wife wants you to come to the barbecue we’re having after Saturday’s game,” Hawke said, sounding hesitant with every syllable.

Fenris’ eyes darted toward Hawke’s features, and he glanced to the side, lifting a single eyebrow as he softly replied, “Do you want me there. I understand if—”

“I’d _really_ like you there,” Hawke quickly murmured before one of the mothers could pass them. He pressed his hand firmly on the table.

“I can admire your basement,” Fenris said, teasing Hawke. “Your lair. Your man cave. Your _gentilhommière_. Your masturbatory laborator—”

Hawke pushed at Fenris’ chest just enough to make it look like friendly banter, and Fenris chuckled at him before taking his wrist and shoving it down. The way Fenris dragged his thumb along his wrist bone didn’t go unnoticed.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I should continue this or not.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

### I.

The patio furniture was cool when Hawke sat down, eyes forward with his wife beside him and Isabela postured in front. From a young age, he'd had infallible self-confidence, sculpted by the hands of a mother who loved him too much and a late father who strove to build him in his image. Hawke knew he was handsome and charismatic. Hawke knew he was talented at navigating conversations to both make people laugh and circle the drain. Hawke knew he had an arsenal of alluring features that made women pause at church to make sure he was doing 'okay.' Wind had never rattled his panes, and he'd never second guessed himself. At least, not until Isabela Vergara.

She was a bull of a personality, mouth perpetually askew in a saucy smirk her beauty didn't collapse under. Dark hair, dark eyes and skin like the oak in the bar Hawke had wooed Fenris in; she was on the decline of her thirties but more magnetic than anyone ten years her junior. She sat with her long legs crossed, hips thick and chest so heavy Hawke had to force his eyes up, and Isabela glowed in her orange and green V-neck dress. From the corner of her eye, she watched Varania who Hawke could now see was the spitting image of the handsome Vergara couple. She would someday be hell on wheels.

"You and Varric are funny. I listen to you in the mornings," Isabela said with her drink in hand. She'd shown Merrill how to make a basil martini, and since then, Merrill had been quiet with her nose deep in her glass. "Good music for the area, too."

"I'd like to think we're funny," Hawke said and leaned back with his arm draped behind Merrill. "Half the time, it's probably from the lack of sleep. Getting up at 4 AM every morning does a number on your psyche."

"Trust me, I know." She glanced at Fenris who had been quiet since arriving. "This one over here is unapproachable at four in the morning. Funny isn't the word I'd use."

"I need my _me_ time," Fenris said, unaffected in that drawn tenor.

'Me Time' had turned into texting Hawke as soon as he rolled out of bed. Sometimes, before either had stepped into the shower, they were telling each other what they wanted to do to the other and pleading for another night away.

Fenris sipped his beer and glanced at Hawke. Hawke looked away.

"You need an extra two hours of sleep," Isabela teased but her eyes never left Hawke. "What else do you two do?"

"Not a lot," Merrill admitted. "Not right now, anyway. Research takes up most of my time, but we go on vacations with the kids to make up for it. We're going to Florida this winter."

"You two should come with us when we go out on Wednesdays. It's the only time Fenris and I have schedules that match up, so we take advantage of it."

Merrill was clearly keen on the idea. She perked up. "What do you two do?"

"We have dinner and…"

 _Fuck_ , Hawke bitterly thought.

"…there's always something to do. I think we wanted to go wine tasting this week? I'm not a wine drinker. This one over here is, but if it gets the job done…"

Hawke realized Merrill and he hadn't gone on a 'real' date in years. He internally cringed at the thought and did his best not to be embarrassed by their loveless marriage. He reminded himself he wasn't the only one, but it hardly helped.

"We'd have to get a babysitter," Merrill said and looked to Hawke. "I don't know anyone, except maybe your mother."

"She complains about not seeing the kids too much to say no. Anyway, she's always trying to get us to find time to go out."

"You two seem like a good time anyway," Isabela said, and this empty compliment would've held more meaning if her eyes glanced to Merrill when she said it.

Fenris said nothing, but the joints in his fingers locked.

"What a foursome," said a humored voice from the other end of the patio. Varric approached the couples with a beer in hand and his bomber jacket zipped up.

"You've met Fenris and Isabela," Hawke said, easing as his friend diffused the moment for him simply by existing. "They moved here a few months back."

"The Vergara family," Varric confirmed. "Everyone knows them. They're too pretty not to know. Isabela walked into the Whole Foods and people haven't shut up since."

Isabela raised her palm toward the sky and shrugged at the apparent burden.

Fenris chuckled and flicked his gaze to the upper-right as if about to roll his eyes, but Varric interrupted his dismissiveness.

"Don't act like you're excluded. You're the biggest 'Pretty Boy' Kirkwall's seen in years. I've heard the turnout at the junior league soccer games is ripping and roaring this year, and I've got a feeling the fact the majority are bored housewives isn't a coincidence."

He parted his lips in surprise and looked away from Varric, and Hawke flashed him a smile. Fenris' caught it from the corner of his eye and Hawke saw him mouth 'biased.'

  
  
  


### II.

Hawke did his best to act normal after feeling threatened by his lover's wife, but all he could do was dwell on Fenris. That and how, if he had anything to do with it, then those couple dates would be as limited as possible. They were a must, but they couldn't become routine. Maybe they'd forget about the conversation.

At dinner, the fluttering in Hawke's gut crept toward his chest and jammed his breathing. Overwhelmed, he did his best to detach his gaze from Fenris' features, but it was impossible. His brain clamped onto the sheer immensity of his attraction to Fenris, and how every quirk of his mouth, every passively spoken word, every unexpected returned glance was grounds for the earth to flip inside out.

It was the nonsensical preoccupation with the smallest, most insignificant things. The way his shoulder dipped when he leaned in to listen to Merrill discuss what was happening on campus or how he dropped back and shot Varric a good-natured, but still condescending, look at his quick-witted remarks. How he drank his beer with that rolling Adam's apple; how he flashed Isabela quizzical stares that cusped his laughter; how he pushed back his bangs and then let them drape his forehead again.

Even when Varania rushed to Fenris' side—her honey-gold afro curls bouncing as Fenris and she shared the same hazel glint—Hawke's sternum heaved. The two possessed a heavy lid that garnered them an inherent air of disinterest, even with the sheer largeness of their eyes, and it was comical on a child. Her features made her seem wiser than the adults wandering the barbecue and corralling children, but its humor didn't last.

She flashed Hawke a sharp look that startled the man into looking to Merrill.

"Bethany said I could use one of her swimsuits and play in the pool."

Fenris leaned over to show he was giving her his undivided attention. He said something in Portuguese that made his daughter laugh and scrunch her nose. Fenris chuckled when Varania prattled back at him with an arched eyebrow much like her mother's. Somewhere between them, Hawke had caught a reference to 'mama.'

"Rude," Isabela said, but she didn't mean it. "They called me no fun."

"Oh, that can't be true," Merrill said and smiled at Varania who gave the woman a bright smile. "Your mother seems like loads of fun."

"Go on. Go play," Isabela said. Varania did a small hop-skip and ran back to Bethany with the good news. Holding hands, the two girls rushed through the sliding glass doors. "See? I'm fun."

Fenris winked at her, and Hawke took a bite of his flank steak with his eyes cast to the side. He reminded himself that Isabela was Fenris' _wife_. There was no room for that kind of jealousy. He hated that he couldn't help himself. He wanted to be fair.

Fenris didn't seem to notice. "Merrill, did Aveline tell you about…"

  
  
  


### III.

"Show me your man cave," Fenris said with the slightest hint of amusement.

They were leaned over the deck's railing, watching the kids take running leaps into the pool and yelling out their games. Merrill and the rest of her friends, then including Isabela, were on the front porch with their wine coolers, discussing husbands. Varric and Company were playing cards and making fun of one another while also dutifully acting as lifeguards. Soon enough, someone would start the bonfire, and the rest of the evening would be spent with half-drunk adults attempting to make s'mores for their children.

"It's not that interesting," Hawke assured him as he pushed back and turned toward the doors. "But sure."

The house was empty when they stepped inside. A soft silence echoed throughout the dimly lit hallways, and it was only interrupted by the occasional laughter from both the front and back of the house. The refrigerator kicked on, and Hawke glanced over the mess spread across the kitchen island. The idea of eventually cleaning it made him sigh.

They drifted toward the basement door. It sat at the end of the main hallway, an entry commonly unbothered by everyone except him. Currently, it stood shadowed by the sleepy haze instigated from both drink and sudden relief of being away from discord.

Fenris first, the pair descended the carpeted stairs, and Hawke chuckled when Fenris hesitantly hit the landing. He looked back and waited for Hawke to follow.

"It's fine," Hawke said and shut the door behind them with the softest click.

The basement was a finished retreat he'd pointedly insisted on when they bought the house . Leather furniture maimed by spilt beer, a wet bar rarely used by anyone except his Monday night football friends and then a sweeping entertainment center festooned with gadgets Hawke himself had a tendency to forget about three weeks after purchasing; the only consistency was in his satellite box and Apple TV.

"Indulgent," Fenris teased and Hawke had to tighten his fists to keep from immediately touching Fenris' hip. "Maybe I _will_ start coming over on Mondays."

"The invitation still stands," Hawke said and then flopped down on his couch with an exaggerated sigh. "That shit upstairs is exactly why I have this place."

"You hate it," Fenris pointed out without much feeling.

"I don't hate it," he corrected. "I just don't have the mental capacity for it the way I used to. I'm getting _old_."

"Are you sure?" he asked and leaned over Hawke who stared up with a vaguely thoughtful face. Hawke ran his fingers down his cheeks and sighed as he closed his eyes. He furrowed his eyebrows and wondered. When he reopened them, Fenris was across the room, dragging fingers along Hawke's movie collection. "Eclectic…"

"My theme, I think," he joked and then noticed how Fenris' mood had shifted.

Hawke stood up and cautiously approached Fenris from behind. His fingers latched onto the tops of Fenris' thighs, and he thought about what it'd be like to finally make way between them. They stood there inspecting the collection together, and it was Fenris who finally broke the peculiar silence that was stacking bricks between them.

"You're on edge."

"No," Hawke murmured and kissed Fenris' shoulder. "I'm fine."

"Don't lie," Fenris cut, and Hawke sighed before pressing his mouth to Fenris' temple. "You don't have to worry about me coming back here."

"Isabela and Merrill like the idea of us being 'couple friends.' That's how things are around here. You'll make yourself a pariah if you—"

"I'm the last to care about this town's social regulations."

"Don't," Hawke breathed and kissed the spot again. "Don't get upset."

"I am _not_ upset," Fenris lied.

He blew a raspberry against the blade of Fenris' cheekbone, and Fenris turned his head with a locked jaw. Hawke did it again, and Fenris finally deflated.

"Stop," he muttered and their fingers interlocked, suddenly squeezing and pressed to Fenris' navel. "What's that expression? Something about ham? You're a ham, Hawke."'

"Ham hock."

Fenris groaned and tried to pull away, but Hawke bubbled into a booming laugh as he pulled Fenris' spine flush against his chest.

"You know it's wrong that I'm here," Fenris said in an attempt to swing back to the original topic. "I feel like they _know_."

"They don't. Fenris, how could they?"

"I can't stop looking at you," he weakly admitted.

"I barely noticed," Hawke said and ran his fingertips along the webbing of Fenris' long fingers, avoiding that wedding ring. "You're good at hiding it."

"Were you looking at me?" Fenris asked, words hushed and self-conscious.

"Do you even have to ask?"

 _Yes_ , Fenris thought. He said nothing.

Hawke's mouth trailed from Fenris' cheek to the shell of his ear, and he reveled in the way Fenris' shoulders inched upward from the overstimulating nature of breath. Fenris tilted his head to the side, revealing a sweeping plain of hot skin accented by black ink, and Hawke smiled. He brushed his nose into Fenris' hair once more before roaming over that presented neck with pops accompanied by Fenris' lifted breathing.

"You're right," Hawke managed when Fenris reached back and fisted his hair to keep him in place. He'd found a good spot. "I hate it upstairs. I hate it."

"I know," he pithily exhaled and then sharply inhaled. Hawke pressed his palm against his navel and dragged upward. Fenris swallowed. "You don't have to hate it."

"Deal with it. Find a better attitude," he joked. " _That_ upstairs won't be bad if I refurnish _my_ upstairs."

Fenris turned his head over his shoulder and Hawke retracted as if ready to kiss his mouth, but Fenris stopped him.

"That's not how life works," he whispered and playfully moved back his head when Hawke attempted to kiss him again. Their mouths hovered close. "Talk to me."

"I don't have anything to say," Hawke managed and Fenris flicked his eyes up to roll them, but Hawke stole a kiss. They fleetingly laughed, and the unprecedented comfort shot spasms of euphoria through Hawke. "Except that you make me happy."

Fenris spoke against his lips. "Is that enough?"

"For now."

"Then there's a future to be had?" he asked, words light and undemanding.

"You tell me."

Hawke considered the question after his witty addition, but Fenris tilted his head, effectively distracting the man. He placed his palm to the small of Fenris' back in order to usher him forward, guiding him toward the bathroom with a swift look over his shoulder. Fenris parted his lips in protest, but he second-guessed his refusal. In truth, he wanted that rush. To hideaway in the deepest recesses of Hawke's house with spread legs was the kind of perversion better left to his bored fantasies, but there he was.

The bathroom was a simple shower and double vanity. With white subway tiles cemented to the walls and dull hardwood, it was sterile in contrast to the two men.

Hawke shut the door behind them and pressed in the lock with his thumb. He caught the other man's arm and pivoted Fenris toward him. Fenris coolly flicked his gaze to Hawke's tempered stare and the man grappled onto the backs of his thighs. He hiked him onto the sink without hesitation and slid Fenris toward the mirror until his back firmly pressed to glass.

Fenris reached and swept his fingers along Hawke's toned biceps.

They were entirely dressed, but the intimacy threaded between them like shoelaces. Hawke nudged Fenris' thighs apart and didn't notice when Fenris' stare grazed past him and focused on the towel bar. Hawke reached between his thighs and pressed in time with their suddenly unified breathing, and Fenris' thoughts emptied. He was a bucket of upturned berries, a glass of spilled milk, a canister of tipped marbles.

"We don't have time to do this," Fenris hoarsely whispered, but it was reflexive.

He'd created resistance that existed solely to be polite. Fenris wanted to be fair to the both of them, but the overwhelming nature of the situation caused his brain to collapse like a disturbed soufflé. There was no explanation for how Hawke made him want to feel his own skin, and sometimes, if he overthought it, then it hurt.

 _I don't love you_ , Fenris told himself. _There's no way._

But he kissed him like he loved him, and when Hawke tugged down Fenris' joggers to reveal short, black briefs, there was no indecision. Fenris knew he'd never been touched by someone the way Hawke touched him. No one had scraped their fingers along the soft hills of his vertebrae as if one wrong press could irreparably damage him. Fenris was a barrel of muscle, unparalleled by most, and Hawke worshipped him like a delicate relic scrounged from a lost temple. Small brushes, faint swipes and stares of veneration. It was the tacit idea that Hawke saw value in that fragile vulnerability protected by centuries-old limestone.

"Wait," Fenris breathed with a laugh. Hawke's fingers were hooked beneath the waistband of his briefs, and as he 'waited,' he continued to tug. "I thought I heard something."

"Now he's paranoid," Hawke teased and kissed him again. Fenris lifted his hips and Hawke swept the underwear down toward his knees, fingers then coiling around Fenris' half-hard cock. He mercilessly pumped and Fenris moaned against the man's mouth. Hawke talked at him. He'd found Fenris loved to be sweetly talked to. "There we go."

"Hawke."

But it wasn't Fenris' voice. It was Varric's.

A swift rap of knuckles against the bathroom door jolted the two apart. Fenris smoothly tugged up his pants and Hawke palmed himself with an impatient grunt.

"Fuck," Fenris breathed and dissolved into Portuguese.

Hawke raised a finger and then gestured for Fenris to stand behind the door just in case Varric hadn't caught on. Hawke knew better than to hope, but he still did.

"Hey," Hawke said and smoothly opened the door. "Fire time?"

"Your wives are looking for you two," Varric said without mercy.

His expression didn't falter. " _Our_ and _wives_?"

"Fenris," Varric continued, and his voice was light as he bore his stare into his best friend's face. "Fenris, Isabela said you've never had a s'more before."

Fenris' ragged sigh could've brought down a city.

He appeared beside Hawke, chin at the level of his shoulder. Neither dared look at the other, but Fenris' hand did gently press to Hawke's back. He slowly curled his fingers around a handful of his shirt, and it was a begging gesture. Fenris wasn't sure how kind Varric was capable of being, nor did he know how loyal he was to Hawke.

 

 

"Does Daisy know?" Varric asked, again so blunt Fenris' blood curdled, seized. "Normally, it's better to get mad at one person, but since you're both married…"

"It's not…" Hawke tried to lie, but he faltered.

"You were just showing him your shaving kit, then."

Hawke reminded himself not to laugh. He couldn't be disgusting and laugh. He corrected himself and thought about the definition of _solemn_ until he convinced himself he was capable of acting _solemn_ in the face of Varric.

"It's personal," Hawke tried.

Varric wasn't sold. "It's actually called being knee-deep in shit. I'm not here to tell either of you marriage is black and white, but I _am_ going to remind you there are kids running around one floor above us. This right here could've been a lot of therapy and 'I hate you, Dad' on the next decade of Father's Day cards."

"No one comes down here," Hawke muttered. He realized he'd just admitted to it and was also pouting like a spoiled child. He rubbed his face and stepped into the den. "Thanks for the warning, man. I didn't think we were down here that long."

"Don't thank me. I didn't come down here to warn you. You just got lucky it was me and not Daisy or Isabela." Varric turned toward the stairs. "I want to be disappointed, Hawke. I really want to be."

Hawke's throat spasmed.

"Varric," Fenris started, voice tense and words terse. "Don't…"

He stopped and rolled his jaw before he chuckled. Varric looked over his shoulder. "This is your cross to bear, Pretty Boy. I won't tell your wife. Don't worry. If you're half the man I think Hawke is, then you'll let the guilt eat you alive long before I even think to."

The threat in that jarred Hawke. Varric would've never said something like that to him before, and he wondered where his rationale came from.

"He won't rat us out. After all, he's with a married woman," Hawke explained to Fenris as Varric climbed the stairs. Varric heard, but he didn't stop. "Bianca Davri works at the university, too. She teaches biophysics, and once a week, teaches sculpting and welding. They've been together for years."

Fenris watched the door shut at the stop of the stairs. His face was shadowed by the unlit end of the living room, and his lips divvied at the unexpected information. Eyes unmistakably watery, he suddenly looked to Hawke, but Hawke didn't look back.

"I'll go first," Fenris offered.

"Have you _really_ never had a s'more before?" Hawke asked.

"I haven't." The mood combusted like a smacked pile of dust, and Fenris hummed. "Will you make me one?"

"How do you eat your marshmallows?" he asked. Fenris climbed the stairs and Hawke's body sought to implode. "Burnt or brown?"

"Burnt."

Hawke decided he'd never understood desperation until he saw Fenris' back turn toward him. He wanted to ask if they were okay, but he decided it wasn't the time. Possibly, it never would be.

They acted like friends upstairs. Hawke casually made Fenris a s'more and let Isabela wipe the white remnants off his bottom lip with a laugh and wet kiss. Varric said nothing, and Merrill was oblivious as she showed Carver how to properly turn the marshmallow over the flame.

When Fenris left with his family, they exchanged passive looks.

It wasn't until Hawke laid down for bed did he get a text.

_You make me happy, too._

  
  
  


### IV.

_But it's an affair._

_It's just an affair._

  
  
  


### V.

Late summer drifted into fall and fall became the beginnings of a dredged winter.

Soccer season ended in the docile manner it always did, and much to Carver's relief, a soft mundaneness overtook the household. Work, school, dinner, sleep; the routine.

Except for Hawke, of course.

He and Fenris had taken up the habit of finding one night out of the week to hide together, usually in a hotel room a town away. Isabela wasn't one to ask questions, and Merrill was accustomed to Hawke's trips. If anyone had thought to raise an eyebrow, then neither of them noticed. With their suburbia prone to being divided by gender, it was easy for men to 'run and play' with other men and for women to spend their time with other women. If outings were ever coed, then odds said, it was either in couples or weakly supervised teens.

In many ways, after Varric's discovery, it was too seamless. But for the Hawke and Fenris, it was comfortable. The undisturbed nonchalance made for a kind of happiness that trickled into Hawke's overall quality of life. He enjoyed his job more, found he had more energy, and in two months, had raised his stats at the gym.

Usually, Fenris was with him while working out, at his side while they drank coffee afterward, in front of him in the shower as conclusion. Hawke woke up to Fenris' good morning text and was usually the one who said goodnight. When bored, which was suspiciously often, he brought Fenris food during the practices he coached. This was always unprompted and always on the end of a suspicious look from one of the girls on Fenris' team.

" _I'd kiss you, but as you see, we're under great scrutiny."_

" _We'll make up for it later."_

_"We can't keep avoiding a night out with our wives."_

_"In theory."_

_"You were the one who told me we had to."_

_"I said that?"_

_"Hawke."_

But again, if anyone thought anything, then no one said a word.

"Let's check out our doom," Hawke said as he tossed Fenris a fortune cookie.

Like so many other nights, they were lost to a motel hovel. Usually, they went out to dinner, but they'd both been tired and decided eating Chinese takeout from the cartons and gawking at HBO erotic specials made for a more relaxing evening.

Fenris caught the cookie and opened the cellophane wrap, cracking the cookie in two and then popping a half into his mouth. He read his fortune as he crunched. He snorted.

"What's it say?" Hawke asked as he read his own.

"Love is like war; easy to begin but hard to stop."

"We must've managed the romance bin," Hawke said and collapsed onto the bed beside Fenris. He read his. "If you love something, then set it free. Cherish it if it returns."

"Terrible," Fenris murmured and laughed as he set his fortune on the nightstand. He ate the other half. "They taste like vanilla wafers."

"So you mean they taste like _grandma_."

Fenris chuckled again and sidled up to Hawke who gave him a firm kiss. Fenris washed down the cookie with beer and kissed Hawke again, but this time, he pulled Fenris on top of him with guiding tugs and sliding legs.

"We could still go out," Hawke tried. He didn't really want to, but he knew once he was out the door, he'd have a good time.

"We could." Fenris absentmindedly kissed Hawke again and glanced at the window. Through the hastily pulled blinds, he could see a curtain of white. "I hate snow."

"It's probably best we stay in, then."

Fenris rolled himself onto his back, taking Hawke with him.

Initially, Hawke figured Fenris didn't want anything past the sexual energy, which sometimes felt so dense it could shatter him. It wasn't until their kisses drifted from manic need to weak tenderness that broke down every masculine barrier he'd placed did Hawke consider the possibility that maybe there was more involved. He'd discovered that, once comfortable, Fenris was obsessed with adoring touch. He was capable of the illicit, pornographic kind of sex where he rode Hawke like a jockey, but when Hawke molded the sexual energy like he was making love to him, Fenris came so hard his lungs stuttered. He'd once yelled so honestly Hawke himself had folded. Because of that night, Hawke had the soft tremor of Fenris' navel memorized.

"I don't want to use a condom," Fenris confessed when Hawke's tongue peeked and swiped across his. He tasted Hawke's cocky smile and headily attempted to kiss it from his mouth. "Don't mock me."

Hawke tried kissing him again. "I'm not."

"You're _smiling_."

Hawke snorted as his own chuckle bubbled from him. Fenris became a beached fish beneath him, suddenly cold and immobile.

"It's because I want to. I'm excited."

"You're excited to fuck me raw?"

"Who wouldn't be, Fenris?" Hawke teased.

Fenris pursed his lips. "You make it sound like an activity one would do on vacation."

"If we went on vacation, then I'd like to think we would."

He swung his arms around Hawke's neck and rolled himself against the man, trying not to laugh as they kissed again. "Why do I let you talk so much?"

"I'm good at it. It's my job to talk."

With Fenris, Hawke picked up Portuguese, but it was in phrases. _Mais rápido_ ; _mais forte_ ; _mais fundo_ ; _me fode_ ; the list went on. These commands came and went depending on Fenris' mood, but he picked them up quickly and knew better than to do anything except what was asked of him. On his back, Fenris' control was otherworldly. His concrete thighs squeezed like he was directing a horse, but Hawke didn't care. It was impossible to care when Fenris chanted his name until it tore from the back of his throat in revealing heaves.

Leaving the condom behind ended up being inspiring.

Fenris sought to be patient even though he'd impatiently tugged his sweater overhead and kicked down his lounge pants. Hawke had barely finished ridding the taste of cookie from his mouth when Fenris clawed up his hooded sweater.

He knew exactly how to guide his fingers along Fenris' biceps as a means to descend Fenris into that special headspace that conquered all rationale. He slid his thumb along the definition of his triceps and dragged his hands down until he reached Fenris' wrists. Their fingers wove together, both squeezing, and Hawke pinned them above Fenris' head.

"You're okay?" Hawke asked. Fenris' eyes fell half-lidded and his breathing created a steady tempo. "You look like you're feeling pretty good."

"Yeah?" His eyebrow lifted with the inflection of that single word, and Hawke reminded himself not to become a puddle of tar. "I'm feeling pretty good."

Their mouths reconnected and a series of pops dispersed between their weighty breathing. Fenris' nails dug into the tops of Hawke's hands, but Hawke didn't hiss. Instead, he intensified the lip lock and perused the other's mouth with his tongue. One of Fenris' more endearing qualities was his excitability, and his inability to stave it off.

With white bangs framing Fenris' head, he looked like God's human rendition of a winter dusk. What light was in the room was swallowed by his impossibly large eyes and Hawke noted, documented, learned the starbursts with their interwoven golds, earthy browns and grass fields. Waist-high in the blades, he kissed Fenris with more meaning than he'd ever kissed his wife, and Fenris' fingers carded through his hair only to grip. He kept Hawke close and whatever sex he'd assumed they'd have fissured into a moment.

Hawke pulled back from the kiss, words leveraging for meaningfulness. "Fenris, I – "

The other's hand gently covered Hawke's mouth. "No, Hawke."

They stared at one another in torrential silence. Fenris' hand fell from his lips and settled limply beside his head. He was the first to look away, and Hawke quietly removed himself from Fenris' space. He sat on his feet with the nearly-naked man splayed in front of him, and he considered what they were doing. It wasn't the first time, but it was the first time he meant the second-guessing. Hawke did _not_ like to think he was wrong.

"Then it's one-sided."

"We're not discussing this," Fenris started and then sat up.

"Who says?" Hawke asked, voice hard.

"Me," he countered and rolled off the bed. "It's not the right time to discuss this. It's not a good time to even consider this kind of conversation."

Hawke stopped digging when Fenris' panic was alive on his face.

"I'm not asking you to leave your wife," Hawke managed. "I'm fine with how things are. I just want to tell you that…"

Fenris' head hung as he tugged on his sweats, and when he flicked his gaze back to Hawke, eyes wide and alive, Hawke would later realize he should've seen the bullet coming.

"Your wife told Isabela she thinks she's pregnant."

  
  
  


### VI.

They drove back that night.

Snow attempting to defy the wipers' will, Hawke had grown accustomed to driving with Fenris' hand in his, settled on his thigh. But they didn't touch one another.

"This doesn't change how I feel."

"You're a fool, Hawke," Fenris managed, but his voice wavered. "This changes _everything_."


End file.
